


Metaphor

by orphan_account



Category: Dream SMP - Fandom, DreamSMP, Dreamwastaken, GeorgeNotFound - Fandom, dreamnotfound - Fandom
Genre: Angst, Angst to Fluff, Dream pulls a whoopsie, Enemies to Lovers, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Gogy is Gogy, Idiots in Love, M/M, Meaning some of the backstories are different, Modern AU, Mutual Pining, Not that much angst though (surprise!), isn’t that every romance story ever
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-15
Updated: 2021-03-15
Packaged: 2021-03-23 04:48:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30050145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: “Dream,” and the lilt in his voice is far too honeyed for how it should sound from his mouth. It tastes like forgiveness to Dream’s ears, but the stare flick of the server’s green dot - online - might color him with false reassurance.It’s just a formality. George doesn’t mean anything.Copycat - the pejorative name was supposed to be a secret, but subtlety’s never been Dream’s strongest suit. A slip-up, a rivalry between his and George’s SMPs…and an unlikely resolution.Enemies to Lovers.
Relationships: Alexis | Quackity & George | Spifey, Clay | Dream & Clay | Dream (Video Blogging RPF), Clay | Dream & Sapnap (Video Blogging RPF), Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF), dreamnotfound - Relationship
Kudos: 22





	Metaphor

**Author's Note:**

> A/n: Would you look at that, I wrote fluff for once. Feedback is appreciated! 
> 
> Took a shot of sparkling water every time “Sapnap” got autocorrected to “Subpoena,” was incredibly hydrated by the end.
> 
> Also on tumblr @/jreemandjorge

Call him a one-hit-wonder, a cultural phenomenon - but a few camera upgrades and god-knows-what later, Dream’s quite the sensation.

It starts with an hour to spare. An hour around the hint of a plotline, a whole lot of improv, and soon, thousands congregate at his streams. Then the hour unfurls to a month, and, he hopes, the year. Every time the green dot on the screen stares, flicks off, a strange feeling bites at his smile - not entirely unfamiliar - but strange nonetheless.

Dream wraps up the plotline. He takes twenty-one seconds, give or take, but it feels as if he’s coming to terms with twenty-one years of disconnect from himself. The blemish of feelings that become patches of thought and say _they all know_. They can’t see behind the porcelain mask, but their teeth and tongues lash words against his mottled face.

Metaphor. He’s like something else and never himself.

He blocks the vitriol. It vanishes from his screen but sticks to his skin.

Sapnap leaves. The rest file out, taking their cue to end today’s stream. But Dream hovers his mouse over the exit button, just a moment longer, staring at that stupid green light.

Ah. He should’ve known.

He’s sleep-deprived and carpal tunnel screams through his wrists. The arch of his right wrist melds into the mouse, as if taking a bow to his motor functions.

_Stare. Flick_. The stream ends. His audience takes the shape of him and his reflection, never quite meeting eye to eye.

Still, he allows himself a _brief_ scroll through Twitter before bed. A brief look through the SMP tag, he promises himself, but is it ever brief?

From the heaviness of his eyes, he nearly scrolls past the creation - unusual only in the fact that he didn’t recognize any of the figures. The caption, George’s SMP.

_That’s nice_. And he crashes headfirst into sleep, his phone red-hot on his face the next morning.

Dream hears more of this elusive George over the next few streams. The comments speak for themselves.

_COLLAB?_ shout many, interrupting the streams’ lulls with frantic chatter. Ranboo’s the first to catch on, offering a shrug and a _maybe you should._

He doesn’t mind it. Not really, but then George starts streaming at the exact same times as him and his viewership plummets.

To say it _plummeted_ , he’ll admit, is an exaggeration. But it for sure fell, and as much as he felt thankful for all the support and recognized he wasn’t the only SMP streamer to ever exist…

It hurt. This - call it what you want, but this paid his bills. Made his days have purpose.

So naturally, it’s hard not to see how it isn’t George’s fault.

Sensational. Dream doesn’t see himself as much of a pioneer of sorts, but he especially doesn’t see how George copying his ideas is somehow a cultural reset.

_Sensational_ doesn’t look like George, the Copycat, and his goddamn SMP server.

In his online pretense, Dream manages a lightness in his voice whenever George’s brought up, followed by a swift change of subject. _Copycat_ , he seethes, before an amalgamation of guilt and anxiety submerges him. What had George done, anyway?

Did it matter?

Copycat - the pejorative name was supposed to be a secret. But subtlety’s never been Dream’s strongest suit.

He’s streaming again. Sleep-deprived as per usual, bitten-down nails drumming the console. One too many comments about him, and—

“While I love the enthusiasm, could you guys _please_ not discuss the Copycat right now?”

He slipped. His mask clattered to the ground, left his face in anonymity but his insides for the rest of the world to see.

They knew.

And all bets are off. The chat floods with varying cries of _COPYCAT?_ and commentary on the _drama_ heating up in the MCYT fandom!. Dream parts his lips, so as to redeem himself, but what could he say?

Fuck. The word, vulgar as it is, doesn’t even begin to describe how unreal this feels. Regret colors him blue and says, look what you’ve done!.

Just like that, he’d undone one hour, one month, and the foreseeable year. As far as he knew, his streaming career was over.

Copycat. A fit of passion. A bitter, cynical streamer who broke the Code in his absence of mind.

Never insult another streamer without due reason. In other words, be polite. That’s all the Code entailed, and apparently, he couldn’t follow it.

Threading a feeble excuse, Dream ends the stream early. The Copycat’s tab glares from his monitor, the green dot - online - never wavering. He has half a mind to hop on and see what it’s about. Except—

Strike two.

He was still logged into his Twitch account. Meaning George could see his username, clear as day, on his viewers list, should he be inclined to check it.

It’s unethical, he miffs. _He’d_ never do it.

George does. Perhaps he was expecting this unceremonious reunion, or perhaps he was just lucky. Either way, the casual question buries Dream’s dignity under shame and humiliation.

“Copycat, huh?”

Even as he says it, George can’t help the frown that casts his face. Had he done something? Because he’d heard the same talk of a possible collab and embraced the idea. Planned out a whole pitch and all to present to his fellow streamer.

Then he happens to glance at the time. At the block men obliterating his. Back at the time.

Whoops.

Three PM - _stream_ , read his calendar. His thick head had interpreted that as _when_ to stream, not when to watch _Dream’s_ stream. And maybe, just maybe, lend monetary support under his fake account that for sure didn’t exist.

Maybe he’d scratched lucky threes and had a little spare cash. What else to do besides dedicate a bit to fellow streamers, albeit under an alias?

Yeah. But to be fair, Dream wasn’t Father Time! He didn’t own the two-to-three o’clock slot in the afternoon to stream. He was just being an asshole.

He may have started this, but George would play up his cards.

_All-in_.

“Since I can’t come up with original ideas, what if I build my own Community House? Like a copycat.” He presses a few keys in rapid succession. “Or copydog. I’m partial to dogs.” Pause. Grimace. “Sorry, that was terrible.”

The scrunching of eyebrows, the half-smile - Dream’s reaction can only be described as the lovechild of mirth and physical pain.

“So I’ve been thinking about new lore,” mentions George. “And since I’m such a copycat, I might just collaborate with the Origins SMP instead.”

The _instead_ slams into Dream at supersonic speed. George offers a wan smile at the camera, as if sensing Dream’s shock through the screen.

Dream shuts the laptop and calls it a day. The moon grows weary and slopes past the sun again. It’s sunrise, and still, he cannot sleep.

Somehow, he avoids checking his social media accounts for the next two weeks. Maybe it’s his crippling fear of rejection. Maybe it’s the fact that he threw away the page with all his passwords.

It’s a bit of both, he concludes.

_Copycat_.

George lied.

He doesn’t reach out to the Origins SMP. They don’t reach out to him, either.

He’d like to think it’s not because of the drama between him and Dream.

Then Quackity calls him out of the blue. “It’s me,” he says through the crackling speakerphone. “How’s _the_ George doing?”

George forces a brightness to his voice that his friend hears right through. “Fine. You?”

There’s a pause. Hushed breathing. Nails pounding the desk. “You’ve got to see this.”

Not an unusual proclamation for Quackity, but his next words make George freeze.

“You’re trending on Twitter!”

George shrugs. “That’s nice.”

“You’re trending. With Dream.”

“That’s nice,” he repeats. It was not nice.

Quackity sighs, carding a hand through his hair. “Look. All you got to do is go on and apologize.”

George deflates in his seat. “I know, but this - this whole thing is humiliating. I don’t know where to even begin addressing this.”

“Not as humiliating as you being an ex-theatre kid,” jibes his friend.

“Okay, okay,” he relents. “Should I start a stream, then?”

“Hop on, Georgie.”

The screens come to life. As does Dream, lurking on his stream yet again.

Remember what he said about smoothing things over?

Yeah, that didn’t happen.

“If you’re going to call me out,” says George, not bothering to conceal the irritation imbued in his words, “you should at least contact me privately instead of lurking on my streams.”

Lucid message, less-than-ideal delivery!

Dream exits the stream.

Some four hours after George bids his viewers adieu, he gets a message.

“I’m sorry,” writes Dream. Just that. With a full period at the end.

“You should be,” George responds and shoves his phone on a high shelf.

He doesn’t touch it for the rest of the day.

In retrospect, Dream should’ve anticipated this sort of response. He’d started it.

Doesn’t stop him from full-on shoving his head into his pillow. Turning it to the cold side, only to have his knuckles collide with his cell. And, as one’s hardwired to do, he flicks it on.

“Listen,” he types. Stares at the screen for a longer time that he would’ve liked to admit to. “I know I messed up. I was being an asshole because I was jealous, and I thought you were stealing my viewership. Stupid, right?”

The read receipt glares back at him.

Still, the next time Dream clocks onto Twitch, George had concluded his stream hours before. The second his ends, though…his cell pings. Two screenshots stare back at Dream, followed by George’s message.

“Would you look at that,” he’d typed. “Our numbers are the same,” followed by a quick “I know this is petty. Am I sorry? Debatable.”

Dream’s brow quirks a bit. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

The reply is instantaneous. “It means YOU need to come up with better nicknames if you’re going to start shit. I mean, _copycat_? At the very least, give me a catchier tagline for the Twitter dash.”

“So you think I’m creative. Is that why you asked me to come up with a better one?”

The Not-Copycat types for longer than Dream would’ve liked. In the end, all he receives is a simple _touché_.

Dream snorts. He’s not sure what to make of their virtual tête-à-tête. It’s infuriating. Copycat, perhaps, but also charmer, conversationalist - George’s just a hell of a person. And he doesn’t like to ascribe positive words to him.

He never learns from his mistakes, does he?

Sleep gnaws at him - the epitome of the college experience - Dream jokes at the start of his stream. While he waits for the others to join, he wars with a stubborn hinge from Schlatt’s terraces. Then he makes the mistake of checking the comments, reading them out loud, and not checking his body language.

It’s always the subtle grins that get you.

“Yes, we’re introducing new lore today,” he says, the fast-paced blur of the comments straining his eyes. “How’s Tubbo...spiffy as usual, are you feuding with George?” An upturning of eyes and lips, unanticipated, unwelcome, and certainly not gone unnoticed. “No, anyway...Tommy!” His friend feuds with the camera for a second before it finally, _finally_ focuses, and they fall into their respective roles for lore.

To say curiosity was his vice would be an understatement. But how couldn’t he, when indulgement was so tempting, a dip in the wharf of knowledge and an anchor for control?

How couldn’t he, when he scrolls down the Dream SMP tag that night and discovers a nascent one?

“Do I _ship_ it?” exclaims Dream over a call, pre-stream with Sapnap. “I’d sooner take a Spirit Airlines flight than have DreamNotFound sail. Sail?” He frowns. “Is that what you call it when a ship becomes real?”

Sapnap shrugs.

An hour, a month, a year. Dream hits send. George replies. Soon enough, they run out of ways to justify their continued conversation. They stop trying to. Backhanded compliments become inside jokes and they schedule private calls because they can. And George says something, he doesn’t quite recall what, but it makes the air ricochet out of his lungs and him double over in mirth. And they’re laughing, laughing.

Faltering.

They lock eyes for a moment through the screen.

“Yeah,” says George, fil de voce.

Dream offers a simper, lucid, hesitant. “Yeah, it’s-” and he doesn’t know quite how to explain it. He hopes they do not make amends, for a selfish part of him cannot fathom a world where those would matter more than the taste of togetherness he’s been granted.

It’s borrowed time. He turns over the thought on sleepless nights. But that makes the time they do have all the more significant.

He doesn’t question why he attaches meaning to the mundane and it leads back to George. It feels natural.

It feels like-

_Oh_.

He calls it a night, feeling strange.

“Dream?” A hand slides up his cheek, faint and cool against the tepid skin. The lull in George’s voice is reverent, obscuring his troubles in light. The brightest shadow. “I love you.” Three hushed words, the hearth of aureate. _I love you, Dream._ A vertiginous warmth sweeps down his hand, the nooks and ridges in his knuckles fulfilled by another’s. _Stare_. They meet, eyes flitting from cheeks to nose to lips without daring to move an inch. _Flick_. He burns with the memory of a touch he’s never felt. It imparts on his bones and shivers under the weight of George’s slackened jaw, the fanning of lashes against his cheeks. As if the swell of his lips were all too close in this space, carved out by his dreams.

They’re nowhere but in their hearts. In this dream-world, the moon hangs a little too low and when he cards through George’s hair, it seams into the night, lit by chartreuse cepheids. The same shade as the stream indicator - online - only in his sleep, the audience is himself. The streamer, his true desires.

All he can feel, know, fathom is that his mask slips down his face.

Their lips meld. He falls further into slumber.

George pulls back, snapping his hands by his sides. As if reprimanding Dream for being ungrateful of what they already share.

“Who are you?” and a slight tremble resides in George’s voice.

“It’s me,” he replies. “Clay.” And his fingers subsume the mask, no longer distinct from the other.

For he is never living, he thinks. only blooming for death. In life and death he finds no salvation. He begs life for love and death for heaven, and receives both in his dreams.

Clay awakens. Venus speaks.

Stupid, _stupid_ Dream. To think that he could ever take off his mask.

“You okay?”

He nods. “Thanks, Gogy. I’m fine.”

“Dream,” and the lilt in his voice is far too honeyed for how it should sound from George’s mouth. It tastes like forgiveness to Dream’s ears, but the stare flick of the server’s green dot - online - colors him with false reassurance.

It’s just a formality. George doesn’t mean anything.

“Hey you, copycat.”

The question slips out before Dream can help it. The terrifying, _tragic_ , do-you-like-me question. Only it sounds more like, “We’re friends, right?”

George laughs. “No, I can’t stand you. Slash J.”

“Did you just say slash J out loud?”

“You didn’t end the call. We’re still talking, which means you-” he jabs a finger at his screen “-tolerate it.”

Dream shakes his head. “NOT true.”

His friend leans back in his chair at a precarious angle. “You tolerate it, ‘cause you love me.”

A tentative hush washes over them, and he worries. Had he gone too far, said the susurrus of thoughts he only dared entertain alone? It’s funny, he thinks, funny how a petty feud over block men had unraveled into this.

_You tolerate, ‘cause you love me._

His head pounds. _You love me._

“That’s not true,” lies Dream. Again.

A faint crack. The chair snaps into place, George leans forward.

_You love me._

“Well, loverboy, how’s a coffee date on Saturday sound?”

Dream grins, truly, fervently, mirroring his lover’s as his answer.

“Who’s the copycat now, Dream?”

**Author's Note:**

> Dreamnotfound is just a founding father turned failed car dealer and his white anime boyfriend. No context


End file.
